


My Mouth was Fire

by Daiako (Achrya)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Angst, Drama, Dwarf Smaug, Family Feels, Forced Marriage, Homophobic Language, Intersex Hobbits, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mpreg, Sibling Incest, Thráin Being an Asshole, an attempt at it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako
Summary: In a wake of a sickness that killed many dwarrowdams and children Thrain would have his people turn to the fertile land of the Shire, seeking more than just what grows in their fields. Among those he sends his son and grandsons with a very simple order: One of them will return with a wife and a seed planeted within a year or they will be exiled, and their duty will fall upon Dis, who is weakened by illness, or Frerin, whose mind has been lost to them since The Battle of Azanulbizar.In the Shire they find Bag End, with the cranky Bilbo Baggins, who would very much like to be left alone thank you, and his ward Frodo, who would desperately love an adventure. Or at least new friends.





	1. Prelude: Once Upon A Time There Was a King

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of internal debate about whether or not Thrain would still reasonably be alive at this point, he'd be nearly 300 by the time Kili and Fili are 77/82, but we'll just chalk it up to good genes or magic. I mean. The Durins are fond of dying horribly before they live out their lifespans so who knows what's natural for them.
> 
> Or age/timeline fuckery by the author. Because there is a ton of that. A ton! So much that I dare say you’ll be happier not trying to make this all work, timeline wise, in your head.

 

Once Upon a Time, as many stories of love, hardship, wicked kings and dragons, and overcoming obstacles begin and so too shall this one, there was a dwarf king. He began his reign as a good king, beloved by many for his fairness and for bringing great wealth to his people. He was Thror, King Under the Mountain, Lord of Silver Fountains, Ruler of Erebor. His people, and the people who lived near and benefited from the wealth of the mountain, sang his praises.

But privately, among those who knew him best, there was worry. After the loss of his wife, his One, he grew possessive and harsh, spending more time with the dead queen’s jewels than among his people. A statue was built in her honor, golden and perfect, dotted with the most precious gems that could be found.

He looked upon it often, its golden glint all his eyes could see and its weightless countenance the only comfort his aching heart could be touched by. He didn't sleep as he should and would not eat or bathe for days when his gaze was upon the statue. It was his obsession and his curse; he neither loved nor cared for anything but the cold beauty of his queen’s statue.

But it was not perfect, not yet, and he ordered his miners to dig deeper,  to seek more, to find him what he needed to honor his dear One. And so the Arkenstone, a jewel like no other, came to his hands. It glowed with a light all its own, ribbons of color like veins of ore and gems spiraling beneath its white exterior, and all could feel its power.

He would craft a crown for his statue and put the jewel at her brow.

And he would descend deeper into his madness after. He spoke to the statue, or perhaps the gem, for long hours and seemed to take to ruling based on that which the statue told him. Those who knew this feared the stone and its power but would not speak against their king. His oldest grandson watched it all, silent in his dismay.

Outwardly he seemed powerful and flawless, making His people rich beyond measure. When he spoke leading his people to take back Khazad-dûm they answered his call, armies from the other mountains gathering and marching with him.  There would be a long fierce battle with the orcs (and allegedly with the aid of a wizard or two to banish the horrors that laid in the deep but the truth of this is not something any but Thror could speak to and by the end Thror could speak to no one.) None knew that the reason was not to reclaim a lost homeland but greed; he was not satisfied with what the Lonely Mountain could provide and craved more, spurred forward by the whispers of the stone that sounded so like his lost queen. Should she not wear a crown of mithril it crooned to him, should he not be King of many mountains, should his legacy not be greater than any dwarf in this age? Should his bloodline, the line of Durin the Deathless, not stand above all else.

The sweet words blinded him to danger, to the cost, and the dream of victory clouded the eyes of all else.

Many were lost in the battles that would follow, including the king, but the ultimate victory would be sung of for generations. Fundin, son of Farin, was granted lordship of Khazad-dûm and Thrain, son of Thror, would take the throne of Erebor.

And it is here the story takes a darker turn. The Arkenstone would call to Thrain not in the voice of his mother but of his father and it would speak of traitors to his line, of those who would see them ended if they were not careful. He would pry the Arkenstone from his mother's statue and place it on a chain to wear near his heart always, declaring it symbolized his right to absolute rule and with that, and his father's ring, he would fall into madness, worse than that of his father.

For Thrain there would be no great deeds born of his insanity, only paranoia, confusion, and an insatiable need for more. Greed and rage turned him into a specter of himself, made him look upon his own children and see not love but betrayal. They would lead the line to ruin from the inside if he allowed them, undo all the things done by their ancestors; his children would be the fall of the Line of Durin. Or so the stone and the influence of the ring told him. He withdrew from all around him, ruling through his advisor Smaug, and refusing to hear any but the strange, golden eyed dwarf who had found his way into the king’s confidence

He became cold and cruel before the eyes of his children and they despaired for him.

It was Dis, daughter of Thrain, who would strike out for the Blue Mountains, unable to look upon the wretched thing her father had become. She would gather the scattered dwarf clans that lived there, bring them together, and become the Lady of the Blue Mountains, still subject to her father's rule but mostly left alone. There were no great riches there, many of the old mines filled by the sea and those that weren't offering copper, bauxite, some common gems, and little else, so Thrain cared not for much beyond receiving his tribute yearly.

All who came were welcome unconditionally and all loved their lady. When she married and when she bore her sons the celebrations were ones for the ages, stretching for months. When tragedy came, two babes who became stone in her womb and her husband, Narfi, killed by wargs during an orc raid, the mountain grieved with her, mourning black the standard for nearly a decade. When her sons, Fili and Kili, grew and found mischief it was under the fond eyes of many.

When the Fell Winter came and the hobbits asked for aid Lady Dis answered the call. Dwarrows marched into the Shire as their rivers froze and battled back the white wolves along side the rangers. She saw food, though scarce for her own people in those harsh times, delivered in whatever amounts they could spare. She opened the mountain to those willing to make the trip. When the winter passed and the thaw came she oversaw rebuilding of bridges and buildings, worked in the flooded fields though such things were not what they excelled in, and never did they ask for anything in return or accept any payment.

The dwarrows spoke often of the fairness and goodness of their lady who acted only because it was the right thing to do.

A relationship between the races was born. Dwarrow already passed through on the great road often, sold their wares on occasion, but now they came during the fall to set up their stalls in the market and stayed through the winter to provide protection in a world growing ever darker. They traded, food once the Shire was back to its usual form and stone and metalwork from the dwarrows. Within a decade a handful of the small villages had cottages on their outskirts, built above the ground in stone and wood, as shelters for the dwarrows who passed through, worked the market, or watched the borders.

It was perhaps inevitable that as a closeness formed between the people that in some cases love would bloom and, to the shock of many, children followed. Some of the small cottages became permanent homes to couples and their small dwobbits, as they were to be called, and some hobbits found their way to Ered Luin to stay. While not all were pleased with such relationships and the fruit that came of them, on both sides, most at least grudgingly accepted it. Lady Dis declared all children of mixed parentage would receive full rights as a dwarf and, in a rare show of interest beyond his treasure room, Thrain supported this. 

This would prove to be grave foreshadowing for 30 years after the Fell Winter a strange sickness came to the dwarrows of all the mountains. Children died in their cradles and dams in their beds, no one able to do more than make the sick comfortable. For the dwarrow, who have always had much fewer dams than males and rarely were gifted with children because of it, there could be no greater pain. The three mountains were struck low by the tragedy.

Lady Dis would take ill as well and though she would survive (Ered Luin in general would suffer less than its sister mountains) she would be greatly diminished for a time, physically weaker than she'd been in many years. When her brother, Thorin, offered to house her sons in Erebor while she recovered she agreed. Fili and Kili were a handful at the best of times and after the sickness it was hard to have the energy for them and governorship. Besides, she reasoned as she watched her son's ride away, Fili was Thorin’s heir. She couldn't keep him with her, away from the Lonely Mountain and Thrain, forever and so nor could she keep Kili, who would sooner die than be separated from his brother.

And yet she felt a darkness in her heart and it took everything she had to not call her boys back to her side.

Fili and Kili stayed in Erebor for three years, learning under their uncle Thorin's watchful eye. But his were not the only eyes on them, merely the kindest and most sane. Where Thorin looked at his nephews and saw a future for his people free from madness Thrain looked upon them, when he could be bothered to leave the treasury, and saw the end of his line. He saw their eyes full of love for only each other, the fleeting touches and soft smiles, heard whispers of many nights where only one bed was slept in and of sheets the princes insisted on washing themselves.

Frerin was useless to him, mind shattered, Thorin would never have children if left to his own devices, rejecting the many Dams who'd come to him in favor of lying with other males, and Dis had given birth to a pair of kinfuckers, the worst of the three in doing so. Their line of Durin would end with his nephews and their unnatural lust; he could see their fate every time he closed his eyes. They would bring shame and destruction and see their noble line rot from the inside out, doing what no outsider have been able to do. 

All the work he had done, amassing wealth and building power, would surely pass into the hands of another line. He could see it perfectly in his fevered dreams, Dain or one of the sons of Fundin, standing amongst his gold, sitting on his throne, the raven crown at their brow, Arkenstone around their neck, his father's ring in their finger.

Never had an image felt so real or sickened him so.

So he acted, or perhaps it was Smaug who acted in his name, and here the story truly begins.

\---

 

_Dear Fortinbras Took,_

_Honorable Thain of the Shire_

_I do hope this letter finds you and your people well. Lady Dis informs us that the Shire once again has had a most bountiful harvest season and that peace graces your lands even in these darker times; this news pleases us greatly._

_I shall, henceforth, be blunt in my address. You have traded and be friendly with Lady Dis and the territory she holds in the name of our King, Thrain son of Thror, for many years and for that we are grateful. As such I assume you are aware of the sickness that ravaged our homes, striking at the most precious and rare among us, so recently and of the tragic consequences we are left to suffer through. Often have dwarrows been brought low and ever have we endured but in this our king feels we cannot do so alone._

_So, to this end, we ask for that which is both a simple thing and not so simple at all, for it is a delicate manner and we do not wish for it to be seen wrong. We are aware it is possible for the union of our kinds to bear fruit and, as such, we would ask for various bachelors in good standing, vetted by king and council, be allowed to come to the Shire to seek wives. The situation will be as it has been in past years, with dwarrows offering their services as needed and protecting the borders_

_I would stress that we do not seek arranged marriages or for any to be forced into something they do not want. Rather we wish that those who are of open enough mind to consider such a relationship be willing to make themselves known (to avoid any issue of unwanted attentions or assumptions made that should not be and to ensure the good relationship between our peoples can continue as it has, unhindered by unpleasantness.) and strike up friendships that could, perhaps, become more. I understand this seems unusual, and that it is perhaps unseemly, but the matter of courting between different peoples is often complex and stopped before it can take it’s first step because of misunderstanding or fear and, in all truth, this letter is more to stop that. All dwarrows shall know they have the full support of their king, and that all hobbits who tie themselves to a dwarrow will be given full rights under our laws to land and inheritance as will their children._

_All of that said I’m sure you can see where this is both a simple matter, in that it involves nothing that has not happened before and calls for little action on the part of yourself, but also complicated in its way. I hope that this will be the first of many letters between us so we may better understand each other._

_Smaug_

_Royal Advisor to the King Under the Mountain_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I'll have the first actual chapter up tonight after work.


	2. Chapter One: Declarations and Ribbons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still the 18th where I am, so I declare I delivered on my goal to get this up by the end of the day. High five for being on the ass end of time zones! 
> 
> This is soooo much longer than I meant it to be. I blame Thrain. And, Jesus, before I forget, this chapter has some not at all thinly veiled threats of rape, forced conception, and slurs/insults thrown very freely. Thrain is a dick. Don't be like Thrain.

“You’ve done what?” Thorin asked, struggling to keep his voice perfectly even. He had heard perfectly well what his father’s advisor had to say but the words, for all they came together, seemed to fail to have meaning. 

Smaug smiled genially, ever well meaning and oh how Thorin hated him. Smaug was the picture of a proper dwarf, of decent height and build with deeply tanned skin, strange golden eyes, and flaming red hair held back with many small braids, pulled back and pinned up. He wore his robes well, was never without gold and jewels adorning him or fur at his collar and cuffs. There had been, before the sickness, many dams who sought his suit. 

Thorin thought he was rather like a snake, pupils a touch narrow, eyes often seeming to gleam when the light caught them just so, and a slither to all of his words and movements. There was an oily quality to him, something loathsome and dark, but there were few others that agreed with Thorin about that. And as long as he had the king’s ear there was nothing Thorin could do or say against him. Thrain ruled here and, for all that Thorin did in his father’s stead, he must obey. 

“Forged a marriage contract, of sorts, with the Shire.” Smaug said, smile firmly in place. “It took some doing, nearly a year of back and forth to work out the finer points and assure their Thain that we mean no ill will nor think of them as merely breeders, but we have found an accord.” 

Thorin frowned slightly. “You’ve arranged marriages with the hobbits?” 

He was aware that a handful of half-breeds had been born since his sister had taken the fertile lands of the halflings under her protection and formed treaties with them, but he’d thought little of it beyond not knowing what his fellow dwarrow saw in the hobbits. They were small, beardless with elfin ears and strange feet they seemed to always keep bare, and seemed to hold few of the same ideals a dwarf might. Still he didn’t begrude those who found that manner of love, something few dwarrows did in their lifetimes (less because of the uneven numbers between male and female, for there were few who disparaged same gendered unions, as because most of them simply had no need for such things. They loved their families, loved their craft, and loved their homes: for most that was enough) wherever they may come across it. 

But arranged unions? That wasn’t their way. Occasionally among nobles, but always with the hope the couple may come to care for each other and only in dire circumstances. If Dis had not met her miner and had Fili and Kili Thorin might have gone that way. 

He had, once, worried about taking a wife and having a son but when Dis had Fili, and then Kili, he’d left that behind. He had his heirs and was more proud of them than he could have ever imagined possible. Any child of his would have surely despaired over the love he had for his sister-sons for no father could love a child more than he did his nephews.  

His heart had filled, a void he hadn’t realized was there fixed, when he’d first held Fili, and then again with Kili. 

He had his home, he had his people, and he had his nephews. Thorin wanted for nothing else. 

...except a sane father and Smaug’s exile. 

Smaug shook his head. “Not precisely. Merely that this year it will be only interested bachelors who will stay in the Shire and that some interested hobbits will entertain the idea of courting, and make themselves known. Nothing is written in stone, and we don’t expect many to be bound in this first year but a few might. It will start a precedence that may yet save us from dying out.” 

He certainly hoped ‘die out’ was an exaggeration but he’d heard others express the same fear. Many looked at the lack of dams and babes and saw the end of their people. It was, he thought in his more bitter moments, very much the dwarf way to finally be safe in their homes and see prosperity return only to slowly die out for lack of children, their most prized treasure. 

Thorin sighed deeply. “And these bachelors? Chosen or volunteered? Have they been looked over and vetted? The Shire has been good to Lady Dis and I wouldn’t unleash wretches upon them.” 

Smaug’s smile stretched, showing off rows of teeth. “Not to worry, your highness, you’ll be able to make sure no one acts shamefully, personally.” 

His father, withered and hunched, practically drowning in his many layers of fur and fine fabric, peered out from under his heavy brow with rheumy eyes. His voice creaked like the supports in the deeper mines when he spoke. “You and your nephews will go to the Shire.” 

Thorin didn’t look, didn’t dare take his gaze from his father, but he heard one of his nephews make a soft noise of dismay. Thrain’s eyes slid to a point over Thorin’s shoulder and his lips, dry and cracking, pressed into a thin line. 

“What your father means is he, and his council, are very concerned about the lack of an child from you.” Smaug said, leaning ever closer to Thrain.

That was...alarming. His father’s council hadn’t spared much time for him in many years, too busy wallowing in wealth like pigs to care about him once he’d turned aside their daughters. “And why is that?”   

“You’ve rejected every at age dwarrowdam who sought your suit, some more than once, before the sickness and now it seems there’s all of one dam to every nine or ten dwarrows, and most who were free were rapidly spoken for by other noble families.” Smaug said. “The lack of an heir is troubling in these uncertain times.” 

Thorin breathed out slowly, trying to force down the sense of dread trying to well up in his chest. “I have an heir. Even if I were to have a child I would not take Fili’s birthright from him.”

Thrain’s scoff of disgust was startling but not as startling as the way his father, old and weathered, rarely displaying awareness of the world or a desire to interact with it beyond his coffers and treasury, leaned forward to sneer at him. “Fili? Your heir who would rather take to the bed of his younger brother than plant his seed in a dam?” 

Thorin forgot himself and the mask of indifference he made himself wear when he came before his father, turning to stare at his nephews. Fili’s face had gone blank, his eyes giving away nothing but a reflection of Thorin’s shock, and Kili looked absolutely horrified, all color drained from his face and mouth hanging open. 

“Your sister's abominations who will surely bring us nothing but shame? No, I would not see either of them upon this throne. There is no place for kinfuckers or one who would abuse and corrupt his brother in such a perverse way.” 

Kili flinched at the word abuse and swayed away from his brother as he shook his head in denial.

Thorin didn’t know if he should take it as a confirmation or merely disbelief that his father, their grandfather, would conjure such a thing to accuse them of and cruel words to do it with. He knew neither of them had taken a lover the whole time they'd in Erebor but he'd imagined sweethearts back home in Ered Luin or that studies and duties kept them too busy, something Thorin understood very well. Or perhaps there was just no one who stirred the urge in them, which wasn't uncommon in dwarrows. That they might be turning to each other...he had never thought it.

He didn’t want to think it but now he could do nothing but, recalling every time he’d come to wake one only to find them together (though never in a way that suggested anything untoward. They shared a bed in Ered Luin and, in spite of having their own quarters, he’d never thought much of them continuing to share.) He thought of the smile he only saw light up Fili’s face when Kili was near, how Kili showed off more for his brother than any other, how sometimes they came running into meetings or practice a bit late and pink cheeked. 

And yet part of Thorin ached to ignore his father’s foul words and go to them, to block their ears and usher them out, but he knew doing so would only make things worse. He’d spent much of the past three years shielding them from his father’s madness and the sword sharp words he could spit without a care, just as he kept them from Frerin on his bad days, but it seemed it had all been for naught. This was worse than anything his father may have said before, be it true or a lie, and while he would never hesitate to use himself to shield Fili and Kili there was nothing he could do about it now. 

He had failed them.

Thorin was rarely struck utterly speechless but as his father’s hissed accusation faded from the air all he could do was stare at his nephews. Fortunately, and he meant that with no small amount of sarcasm, his father was not yet done with his revelations. If anything he seemed to be gaining a head of steam, hands gripping the arm rests of his throne and color flushing his usually sallow skin. 

“And you, my son. Did you not know what is plain to me and many others or, perhaps, do you know better than most? Is it you who taught them to engage in such vile acts?” Thrain asked, eyes growing so wide they took up much of his face. Spittle flew from his mouth and hung from his silver beard. “Do your sister-sons sneak into your rooms at night or is that a honor you only allow your guard and barely of age scribes these days?” 

The silence between them was thunderous and nearly alive with the tension thickening between them. 

That was a reference to Dwalin, no doubt (he had no idea what barely of age scribe his father could mean but was willing to chalk it up to his insanity). They had dallied in their youth; their parting hadn’t been the neatest but all these years later he still counted the other as his closest friend and most trusted ally. Thorin was mortified that his father had any insight into his bedsports, though it had been many years since anyone shared his bed, but he set that aside in favor of more pressing matters. He had always been told he had a temper and what control he had was slipping from him. 

The thought of touching his nephews, of doing what his father suggested, it was...he had never heard anything so foul in his life. It wouldn’t stand. 

From the corner of his eye he saw Kili reach for his brother’s hand and Fili flinch away.

“That is disgusting.” Thorin spat, words finally returning to him. Many years had he endured his father’s insults while also juggling his duties as prince (and many of the ones of king besides) and he’d long since learned to hold his tongue and bury his rage. But this was simply too much. “You know not of which you speak. I don’t know if this  _ worm-”  _ Smaug smirked, humor in Thorin’s words plain. Thorin hated him with a fervor usually reserved for orcs and elves _. _ “Has been whispering filth in your ear or if you are this deluded on your own-”

“Deluded!” Thrain roared, rising from his throne with an fire in his eyes Thorin hadn’t seen since Smaug had found a space at his elbow, nearly sixty years. “You think I don’t know what happens in my mountain? I have eyes and ears everywhere, many are yet loyal to me in spite of the discord you would sow. You think I don’t know of your plots, your betrayal-” 

Thorin jerked back a step, the sudden life in his father making his heart ache, before he straightened his back and told himself to stand firm. Madness, pure madness, was what fueled his father now and he couldn't forget that; he knew to expect it but it stung to have it thrown at him nonetheless. He’d never spoke a word of betrayal and had, in fact, done his best to hide his father’s madness by acting in his name. Even when others had whispered that it was perhaps time he took the throne he had rebuked them. 

“I have never-”

“Listen well Thorin  _ Oakenshield _ !” Thrain took a step forward, skeltal finger pointed towards him, throwing the title like the most foul of curses. “You will go to the Shire as soon as you are able to make the trip, you will take your nephews, and within the year one of you will have planted a seed or you will not return while I still breath. Erebor, and all  _ my  _ mountains, will be closed to you! You will not curse our line to die and then dare sit upon my throne, I will not have it! You are no longer princes of Erebor and if there is no heir in a year so you shall remain.” 

The sharp inhalations behind him mimicked perfectly how Thorin felt at the declaration. Exile? Was his father really, and truly, declaring them exiled and disinherited? He couldn’t! He wouldn’t dare, the issue of succession aside the chaos that would come as loyalties split. There were many dwarrow who had no care for or faith in Thrain but believed in their king’s children, and loved Fili and Kili as their mischievous princes, who would not take them being cast out silently. 

Already, in the wake of the sickness, things seemed to be balanced on a razor’s edge. They had wealth but in the moment they lacked a clear future. A mad king, over two thirds of their dams passed away, more children than Thorin cared to think of along with them. There was much hurt and sadness in their mountain among those not of noble blood and no amount of gold could mend it but Thrain seemed oblivious. 

At least Thorin had thought he was. This deal with the Shire suggested some awareness of things but that did little to put him at ease. He’d prefer his father too blinded to scheme and make threats if given the choice. It had been so long since Thrain had his senses about him that Thorin could barely recall what such a sight was like but he knew, though the man was on his feet and suffused with an energy he rarely had, that this wasn’t it. 

As if sensing his thoughts Thrain visibly deflated and all but collapsed back onto his throne. “It has been decided. The council has given their approval and have sworn to accept a halfbreed raised in proper fashion. Better that than nothing at all. If you cannot find it in yourself to spill in a hobbit lass to make an heir, nor can one of your  _ heirs _ , then the duty will fall to Dis or Frerin.” 

The last of Thorin’s anger ran out, turning to cold fear instead. Not fear for himself, as Throin hadn’t known fear for himself since Azanulbizar, but for his siblings. And his father and Smaug knew it, he could see it in the glitter of their eyes and the sets of their mouths; these were not threats chosen idly but because they knew he could be cowed by them. Dis, while not out of her child bearing years necessarily, had lost two babes after Fili and Kili and her husband besides. She had taken no lover since then and wouldn’t unless forced. Frerin was...Frerin was sick. Had been sick since Azanulbizar; sometimes he was fine, bright and shining like he’d once been, and other times his moods were sudden and unpredictable, moving him to be childlike and confused, or manic and furious, or inconsolably distraught and self loathing. He wasn’t well and much of Thorin’s time was spent keeping him out of Thrain’s way. 

He would have sent Frerin to Dis or Fundin or even Dain long ago if he wasn’t afraid his brother wouldn’t survive the journey. On his good days there were few dwarrows he had more faith in but on Frerin’s bad days...things could be very bad. Frerin was as likely to wander off a cliff or into a den of wolves, unable to see the danger, as stay on the road and out of harm's way. 

Still he found himself considering it. Could he refuse, take Frerin, their nephews, and leave? Dis would welcome them but then what? Continue to refuse Thrain’s demands and risk splitting their people’s loyalties? At best it would splinter Durin’s Folk, at worst...his father may declare Dis also cut from the line and try to remove them from Ered Luin by force. While Dis ruled there it was under Thrain’s kingship; he would be well within his rights to demand they be exiled from there as well and, if that didn’t work, to bring force down on their heads. 

The people would stand by Dis but to what end? Erebor’s might would crush Ered Luin. Thorin would not see his people come to harm if he could act to prevent it. 

Smaug’s smile became sharper, showing off his teeth. “There are many who would love to try to sire an heir, and many more noble than the miner Lady Dis married. It will be an easy matter to cycle through them until one is successful. Frerin may be a more complicated matter but his body is healthy enough even if his mind is not.” 

Thorin saw nothing of the room, frozen for a long moment, feeling as if he’d been slapped in the face with his own shield as he quickly considered the implications and his options. What was he to say to that? These were vile threats, unthinkable to even breathe a suggestion that one might force another to bare or sire a child, yet his father sat, unaffected by the threats to his children. 

Fili swore, a harsh series of words that would have made even Dwalin blush, but Kili’s strangled cry was louder and hurt Thorin’s heart more. It shook him from his daze in time to register footsteps coming towards him rapidly. He threw an arm out, stopping his elder nephew from going any further, than gripped his arm tightly. Fili looked at him, eyes bright with hatred and shock. Thorin could feel him shaking and straining in his grasp.

“Uncle-” 

“I know.”

“Mother-”

“I know.” He repeated, squeezing Fili’s arm. Nothing good would come from attacking Thrain, especially not with the killing intent on his nephew’s face. Not when guards stood just outside the heavy stone doors and Smaug stood, sword at his hip. Thorin had no doubt he could slay his father’s advisor, especially with Fili and Kili at his back, and his father if needed but it wouldn’t make them look good, not at all. Exile would be a gift and execution far more likely. 

Dwarrows weren’t like men were, allowing those who slayed kings to take thrones and there was no reward for kinkillers. 

Not even when the kin was known to be completely mad. 

“Take your leave.” Smaug said, loathsome voice cheerful. Thrain sank back in his throne, curling in on himself and once again becoming the image of age and weakness, blurry eyes staring off into the distance. Whatever had brought him to his feet had left him. “Think of what has been said here and make a kingly choice, your highness.” 

Thorin said nothing and didn’t bow as was customary, merely taking both of his nephews by the arm and hustling them out of the throne room, past the stone faced guard. They were both vibrating with fury but quelling looks kept them quiet until they were back in the royal halls. Kili and Fili occupied on of the halls, along with a room for Dis should she ever visit (she wouldn’t) and space for their personal guards in the form of their younger cousin Gimli, who had become fast friends with them when the lads had come to the mountain, and Lori, of the Ri family. Thorin and Frerin lived in the next hall over, with Dwalin, occasionally Balin, Oin, and Frerin’s nurse. 

His father had once lived in the King’s hall but had since had one of the treasure rooms converted to a bedchamber so he could be ever close to his gold. The wing Thorin’s grandfather and grandmother, and then his father and mother, had once lived in and he had once run through, carefree and reckless, laid empty. 

“You will go to your rooms. Separately.” He added the last part with more force than he should have and regretted it instantly. Was he going to let his father posion him against his sister-sons? Had he not also accused Thorin of misdeeds, a baseless suggestion. Why would he put so much faith in the ravings of Thrain?

Why was it so easy to believe it was the truth?

“Uncle!” Kili wiggled from his grasp and stood still, face taking on the mulish expression it did when he was about to dig his heels into something. When Kili was well and truly determined there was no moving or swaying him. “Uncle, please, you need to understand.”

Thorin shook his head, not wanting to hear what was about to be said. Fili too looked stricken, fear and guilt warring on his face, but he was behind Kili and so his brother could not see. And it might not have deterred him anyway, not when he looked so determined. 

“Fili has never  _ abused _ me. He would never hurt me.” 

Thorin wanted to walk away and pretend Kili hadn’t spoken. Let it be part of Thorin’s madness, let his image of his nephews remain unaltered. But it had been said and he heard what Kili meant below the words; it was an admission. He looked past the younger towards Fili but his older nephew wouldn’t meet his eyes and that too was a confession. Bold, confident Fili never cowered, never looked away, never backed down but now he was staring at the floor, hands balled into fists at his side and shoulders shaking. He was, in the moment, smaller and more fragile than Thorin could recall ever seeing him before and he’d been there when Fili was a babe, when he was ill, when he took his first injury in a fight (drunken men in a nameless tavern who’d taken offense to their presence and expressed it with a knife to his nephew’s thigh). 

He closed his eyes and breathed out. Had something gone wrong along the way? Had they not had enough friends outside of each other, been allowed to grow too close? Was it something Dis had done or something Thorin, who had never been never around as much as wanted though he tried. He wrote often, came to Ered Luin whenever it was possible and stayed for seasons at a time, took them into the world with him…

Maybe it was the loss of their father. Maybe it was the illness of their line taking hold in new ways. 

When he opened his eyes it was to look at Kili again. The difference between his sister-sons was stark. Fili was hunched, waiting for the condemnation that he was sure was coming, but Kili was standing tall and firm, face tilted up towards Thorin, face open and waiting. His younger nephew wore his emotions for all to see and here Thorin could see anger and worry but also warmth, strength, and not a trace of fear. 

Thorin realized that, in true Kili fashion, that it had probably never occurred to his nephew that he might be rejected. Fili was waiting for harsh words and Kili was waiting for acceptance. 

He reached out to curl a hand around his nephew’s neck and brought him close enough for their foreheads to touch. “I know he wouldn’t.” 

Kili’s smile was as bright as all the torches in the mountain. Fili’s, as Thorin drew him in to repeat the forehead touch, was strained and cautious. 

“Now, to your individual rooms. Someone is watching and running their mouths to the king and I wouldn’t give them more to speak of. I...need to think.” He said, too tired to make his words anymore than a request. They nodded then, with a quick brush of fingers between them, did as asked, each vanishing through a different door. 

Thorin rubbed at his eyes then continued down the hall to his wing. He needed a drink. 

\---

When Dwalin found him in his sitting room, an hour and half a bottle of good strong spirits later, his oldest and closest friend just sighed before dropping down into the other chair set near the fireplace. 

“Meeting with the king went well?” 

Thorin slammed back his glass, the burn of alcohol having long since faded into pleasant warmth, poured another and downed that as well, before giving Dwalin the finer points of the arrangement with the Shire.

“And, it seems, Fili and Kili are…” He trailed off, unable to grasp the word he needed. 

Dwalin sighed again then reached for the bottle to take a long pull directly from it. Thorin watched him, not nearly as addled as he would have liked to be, nothing the way Dwalin’s shoulders fell and his eyes darkened. 

“You knew.”

“That they’re doing their best to fuck each other blind? Aye, I did. Knowing what you lot are up to is only my entire job.” Dwalin shrugged, gaze intent on the amber liquid in the bottle. “They weren’t harming anything and are discreet, so I let it lie.” 

“Thrain knows.” He wanted it to sound harsh, to put blame onto his friend, but he lacked the energy. 

Dwalin’s lips twisted. “That’s not good.” 

“He’s cut them from the line of succession. Me as well, unless one of us returns with wife and babe in womb within a year.” 

“...well. Suppose we could kill him before he gets it down on paper.” 

Thorin wasn’t sure if he was more bothered by how casually Dwalin spoke of killing his father or by how much he wanted to agree. Allowing a threat to his nephews, his brother, and his sister to continue to breathe felt...wrong. Thorin had grown hard over the years but Dwalin even more so, and more shrewd and pragmatic as well. Thorin often missed the slightly sour tempered but generally good natured boy his friend had once been. 

Dwalin felt the same about him, he was sure. 

“He also said something about young scribes sneaking into my rooms at night.” Thorin had given that matter some thought, finding it a more pleasant topic than his father or nephews as he drank, and have come to a conclusion. He didn’t know all the scribes in the mountain, not even most, but he knew of one who’d just returned from his apprenticeship with Dwalin’s brother. And he wasn’t the only one who dwelled in this wing but he doubted Frerin or Oin were sneaking young Ori into their rooms past decent meeting hours.

“Did he?” Dwalin asked, the picture of disinterest. “Interesting. I should get on ferreting out these spies of the kings. Nasty business spies are.” 

Thorin groaned; he was not equipped to deal with issues and scandals such as this. “He’s a child, Dwalin.” 

His friend scoffed. “He’s seventy-five-”

“Two years younger than Kili!”

“And a journeyman in his craft.” Dwalin didn’t skip a beat or acknowledge his protest. “We were a fair bit younger when we used to run about the mountain, fooling around in any dark corner we could wedge ourselves in.” 

“And now we are much older. And larger and not flexible enough for half the things we used to do.” 

“Speak only for yourself, please.” Dwalin looked scandalised. “I’ll have you know I’ve only gotten better with age and remain quite flexible.” 

Thorin smiled fondly in spite of himself. “That you have.” 

They didn’t speak for a long time, letting the crackle and pop of the fire fill the air. He watched his old friend, mind half focused on days long past and a youthful passion he hadn’t felt since. Oh they had been different dwarrows then indeed. Dwalin’s eyes met his, softer around the edges than the warrior would allow many to see. 

“Ori had been aiding me in gaining Dori’s approval for a courtship.” Dwalin said, lips quirking upward. “I’m giving my courting bead to Nori. Balin’s had his son so Khazad-dûm is secure for another generation, and I’m free to do as I please.” 

Thorin blinked. Sat back in his seat. Looked left then right then blinked again, half expecting someone to burst out and shout ‘surprise’ because the idea of Dwalin, his steadfast head of the guard, offering his suit to Nori, who may or may not have been banned from the mountain for one crime or another (again), was actually more inconceivable that his nephews ‘trying to fuck each other blind’ (Dwalin had such a way with words). But no one appeared to tell him it was a joke which left him forced to accept it was the truth. Thorin swallowed thickly then opened his mouth to laugh, long and hard. Dwalin endured it well, puffing up and shoving at him in irritation but smiling the entire time.   

“You have my congratulations, I think.” Thorin said when he’d at last caught his breath. He felt a bit lighter; the situation was still too terrible to think on for long but some of the tension twisting his stomach had loosened. He almost didn’t sound bitter when he said: “May I be as lucky in the Shire.” 

“You’re going then?” 

“What else can I do? I will find a wife and sire a child to spare my sister-sons the burden and reclaim my place as prince.”

And when his father was gone he’d name Fili his rightful heir again. Thorin could wait Thrain out if he must.  

No dwarf could live forever. 

Dwalin shook his head, smiling dimming. “Mahal help any hobbit lass you wrangle, Thorin, and protect her heart when she realizes you can’t love any above this cursed mountain.”

If it had been anyone else he might have tried to defend himself but Dwalin knew the truth better than any else ever would. Once upon a time he’d declared he had not the room in his heart for his friend, not as Dwalin deserved, and he’d meant it. He’d had not the time, the energy, the ability when his father was sliding deeper into his insanity, his people needed guidance, and he had two nephews without a father in Ered Luin. 

But if this was what he must do then it was what he would do. Any wife of his would be kept well, afforded whatever their heart may desire and more. Being a princess, and then queen, consort would not be a bad life by any stretch. Thorin could think of few who would pass it up. 

 

\---

 

“What,” Bilbo asked, voice frightfully sharp. “Are those in your hand?” 

Frodo yelped, not expecting his uncle back from the market so soon. The ribbons he held carefully clutched in his hand slipped between his fingers. He watched them, silken lengths in a cheery blue, fall to puddle at his feet, pretty evidence of his misdeed. He swallowed anxiously as he looked up to meet his uncle’s hard green eyes and smiled what he hoped was sweetly enough to diffuse the situation. 

“Hello uncle. How was your trip to the market?” 

“Full of twittering lasses and bearing lads with those things tied in their hair.” Bilbo said, not bothering to hold back his disdain. “Why any are so eager to proclaim themselves as breeders for dwarrows I will not understand. The dwarrows won't even be here until planting season, what's the point of the ribbons so early?” 

“Breeders.” Frodo echoed wryly. “Really?” 

Bilbo nodded once, firmly. “Yes, really. What else would you call coming looking for wives of all things? But it’s not partners they want, its bodies to warm their beds and carry their children, mark my words. And you, my own nephew, participating, with the lot of them. The shame of it all.”  

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Frodo said, preparing to launch into the same argument they’d been having since the Thain had announced that the dwarrows would be coming to Hobbiton, as they always did for planting, harvesting, and the like, but that this year they would be looking for a bit more. “Except that I’m willing to talk and maybe make friends. Wearing the ribbon doesn’t mean any of us have to marry anyone.” 

Frodo certainly wasn’t looking for a dwarrow to marry. He just wanted, as he’d said, to make a friend or two. The dwarrow came through every year, though the groups were often different from year to year, and he watched and wondered about them from afar but aside from rare cases their people only talked to do business. They were cordial and even kind, but they were not friendly. 

But this year could be different. Wearing a ribbon, the agreed on sign that he was an of age hobbit without a spouse and not adverse to dwarrow attention, was the opening he needed to speak of more than garden tools and pots. He didn’t picture any great romance to upset their parents over before breaking off the courtships, as some of the other young, fertile hobbits who’d decided to wear the ribbons did. Most of them thought it a game, a little fun rebellion before settling down and become totally respectable, a way to mess with their elders who stood staunchly against the idea (but could do nothing because, technically, all that was happening was that the dwarrows might speak more often to those who were willing but otherwise things would continue as normal) but Frodo hoped he might learn a little and, yes, make a friend. Someone who could tell him about life outside of the Hobbiton and his uncles sometimes oppressive eye.  

Bilbo was a good hobbit and Frodo loved him fiercely. When the rest of their family had been without a place for him Bilbo, not quite of age and only eighteen years older than Frodo was, had opened his home to him. He’d soothed a devastated fauntling with stories of adventures, battles, and elves and cared for him unconditionally. He’d never laughed at him wandering in the woods to find the elves or discouraged his dreams of the outside world or allowing others to do so. Frodo was odd and Bilbo had always allowed him to be so. 

But he didn’t let Frodo wander far, didn’t like him to talk to the travelers who walked the great road, and would never entertain the idea of re-creating Belladonna Baggins many adventures, no matter how much Frodo begged and pleaded. He fretted about the evils and darkness of the world, insisting Frodo was too young to understand the true danger out there. Bilbo clung to him tightly and as much as Frodo rejoiced in knowing someone cared for him he chafed under the restriction. Was it so wrong to want to see and do a little more and to follow in the footsteps of Bilbo's mother, who everyone spoke of so highly? 

He didn't know what Bilbo was so afraid of. 

So if Frodo was to know, really know, of the outside world he was going to need someone other than his uncle to tell him about it. Someone like a dwarf.

“They’re only interested in what lies between the legs of some of us, not in making friends.” Bilbo insisted as he turned back into the kitchen. 

“You could do with someone interested in what’s between your legs.” Frodo muttered as he scooped up his ribbons. It might make his uncle less grumpy if nothing else. He wasn’t positive but he was almost certain his uncle hadn’t had any ‘adult’ company since Frodo had come to live with him twenty years ago.  

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” 


	3. Of Moths and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori is having a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Ah. Hahaha...so. Nori kind of. Took over. I tried to control it but honestly he deserves a little bitching time. He's surrounded by dolts. There was to be some action in the Shire but this chapter was running at eleven pages so I cut that out to put in the next chapter.

“The forest feels stranger the deeper we go.” Thorin, riding alongside him, ground out. He looked a fair bit different without the fine jewels and clothes, hair bound in a single braid instead of the two he usually wore at his temples with the rest falling free, and beard cut short (That had been shocking to witness, as had Thorin’s oath to not grow it back out until his siblings were safe and Thrain dealt with. It had been a bit melodramatic for Nori’s tastes but no one had asked his opinion.) If Nori hadn't known better he'd think the prince was some common dwarf and little more.

But Thorin wasn't just a common dwarf and Nori had been  _ entrusted  _ with this task so he bit his tongue. It was about the only way to resist the urge to inform Thorin that he’d been saying variations of the same since entering the Greenwood and, surprise, it didn't make the trip any better. In fact it made him want to punch the prince in the nose and tell him to watch his own back on the trip to the blasted Shire if he couldn't find a new topic of discussion. And, also, could he do something about his nephews and their guard? Because Nori would hate to have to kill them when so much work was being put into their safety. 

...he wouldn't hate it that much.

He might even like it a little. 

More than a little. 

Dwalin would be upset with him though (he was not just terribly fond of the princelings, thinking of them as not distant cousins but nephews that he’d had a hand in raising, but he fancied Gimli as his protege, insisting the lad was going to be the best axe wielder of his generation), and not in the fun way that ended in hate sex, and Nori didn't want any part of that.  

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them. “Yes.” 

They had a long way yet to go and he couldn't afford to be distracted, not in this place. Things lurked in the forest, terrible things and the road was in disrepair, broken in spots and so overgrown they had to dismount and lead the ponies carefully in others. The air seemed to cling like slime to his skin and when he let his eyes stray from the road too long he swore he heard voices calling to him; losing focus could be a death sentence. Even if the creatures hadn’t been there it was a fact that the elves of this wood had no love for dwarrows in general and even less than that for dwarrows of Erebor since whatever Thror, the original crazy kingly coot, had done to piss off the elf king all those years ago. Things weren't so bad that they weren't allowed to travel through but leaving the road could have unfortunate consequences. ‘Be accused of trying to break into the kingdom proper and be sent to the dungeon until Thranduil got bored’ consequences, an experience Nori had no desire to repeat.

It had been a long, lonely year, made all the worse because Nori had been trying to break in and hadn’t even ended up leaving with what he’d come for. 

No sane dwarrow would venture through the aptly dubbed Mirkwood at the best of times and these days, with a strange rot and creeping darkness taking hold, it was not the best of times. Far from it; that was why they were using the road and not one of the other, more traveled, routes. No one would think to come this way after them, hopefully, and that meant safety for a time. 

So long as they didn’t stray from the path or do anything that attracted the elves. 

Though considering how loud the youngest among them were and the equally loud complaints about a lack of fire, the cold food, the snow, the wind, the ponies, and everything the fuck else he wouldn't have been surprised if they'd already done the latter.

"What has Thranduil allowed to take hold here?" Thorin mused, dark eyes flickering off into the trees. "Do his people no longer try to maintain the forest at all?" 

Nori hummed noncommittally, though he was wondering the same. He'd been through some two decades before and it had been bleak but not nearly this bad. He didn't understand how things could have progressed so far, both in the state of the road and the feel of the wood, in so little time. It didn't feel right at all. 

“How much further is it Mister Nori?” Kili shouted from the back of the line. Before Nori could tell the lad to be quiet, again, two equally loud voices were shushing him. The forest around them echoed the sounds back many times over.

Nori ground his teeth together. 

Dwalin owed him for this and none of that dwarf’s occasionally (rarely) sweet words would save him. Though he supposed offering to marry him when this was all over was certainly...something. Nori wasn't sure it was enough, especially after having to fish Gimli out of the water when it turned out the little idiot couldn't swim (he and Gloin were going to have words about that). And keep Thorin from finding the Master and thrashing him over the state the people lived in (“We trade regularly and pay far more than we should for goods! Why does none of it show?” Thorin had demanded. Nori was too kind to compare it to the circumstances of the poor in Erebor or the Master of Laketown to King Thrain). And drag Fili away from a bar fight where he'd nearly revealed himself as a prince of Erebor (arrogant little fuck didn’t seem to grasp that his coloring was something of a dead giveaway even among men). And keep Gloin, ever the merchant and banker, from trying to work out some trade business and flashing his credentials as one of the higher ups in the merchants guild. 

They’d spent two nights in Laketown, allowing Nori to poke around and gather information while checking for tails, but he’d considered lighting the whole damn thing on fire to be rid of them by the end. 

And now the forest. 

Oh yes indeed he wouldn’t mind burning the whole Greenwood down around their ears. It may do the world some good. 

The thing was Nori was having a bad day. Week. Series of weeks, really. It had started three weeks back with his employer and more often than not lover Dwalin calling him for a meeting. A meeting that had turned out to include the Crown Prince and Dwalin's brother of all possible dwarrows. He'd nearly balked and run off but the effect that would have on his sex life kept him from doing so. He'd regretted it when he'd heard what they had to say, a whole convoluted mess starting with their insane king disinheriting Thorin and ending with planting their seeds in some poor hobbits who, no doubt, would run the other way if they knew just how much of a mess the family they would be tied to truly was. 

Nori would never claim to understand the minds of noble types but usually there was some sense in all the drivel. This, what the king was doing in striping the princes of their titles, demanding they knock up some hobbits, and threatening Lady Dis and Prine Frerin, was pure madness and cruelty on a scale that even Nori found impressive. ...impressive in a bad way, yes, but still. Impressive in how completely flawed and nonsensical it was.

Is what he’d thought before realizing that Thorin was going along with it. That was a new, never before scaled peak of orc buggering crazy that Thrain had yet to even spot let along try to climb in Nori’s humble opinion. But he understood it: they all did dumb things for family be they prince or gutter trash. That was that that had swayed him to agreeing to help smuggle Thorin, the young princes, and their company out of Erebor late one night for the purpose of crossing to what was nearly the other side of Arda in the fucking winter. 

Nori hated winter but he hated the idea of turning his back on someone trying to aid his family even more. He had his morals, sketchy as they were.

Plus they were paying him handsomely. 

It was just that and not at all Dwalin taking his hand and telling him, with sincerity that frightened Nori to his core, that if he was to stay behind and protect Frerin, a task Thorin trusted to none but Dwalin, then in turn there was no one he trusted to take his place at Thorin's side more than him. Him, Nori, thief, spy, and murderer just enough times over that it didn't keep him up at night, was the one Dwalin, son of Fundin, head of Thorin's guard, war hero, trusted with not just his prince, but best friend. 

It was enough to give better dwarrows than Nori a panic attack. He did not consider himself a good dwarf and, in fact, Dwalin’s easy acceptance of that was part of what had drawn him to the guard. Watching Thorin’s back, keeping him and the princelings unseen and safe all the way to the Shire, that was a task for a good dwarf. 

To say nothing of the proposal bead he'd found pressed into his hand when Dwalin had released him, presented to him unashamedly in front of Thorin and Balin. It was no small declaration to offer the bead in front of their future king and Dwalin’s brother. Nori had lacked for an answer, and breath, but Dwalin had seemed unconcerned. The great ass had even winked and airly told him that escorting Thorin was a great excuse to get away and panic, as he so liked to do.

He hated that somewhere along the way Dwalin had come to know him so well. What gave him the right? 

Nori refused to admit to a sudden desire to run for the plains or to dreams of chains and finely crafted beads pinning him to a mountain side in the days leading up to their flight from the mountain. And even if he did admit to such things none of that had been why Nori agreed. It was just to help Thorin keep his family safe. That was all. 

That was what Nori told himself at least. It made him want to tear out his hair less if he thought he'd done it for some sort of noble thing like family and the promise of a nice payday at the end, maybe some favor from the royals, and not because of silly things like love, damn Dwalin and his affections, or fear.

Thrain knew they would be headed to the Shire but Dwalin didn't want the king knowing when they left (in fact he planned to lie and say Thorin was sick and the lads on a hunting trip to hide their departure), with who, or what path they would take so doing everything in secret was a must. If Thrain was in the know he, or his oily advisor, might act against them. Or so Thorin feared. Thrain wasn't to be trusted, which was why Dwalin would stay and keep Frerin protected from the king. 

Nori did not envy a life that came with being afraid of one's kin, no matter how hard his had been. 

_ “If something seems wrong,” Here Dwalin had exchanged looks with Thorin and Balin before turned back to Nori. “I’ll pack up the prince and follow. But until that happens I need you to act for me.”  _

And that was it. That was the plan. Dwalin would keep them abreast of things on Erebor and Nori would travel with the princes and Balin, who was intending to continue on the Ered Luin, and play babysitter. Which wasn’t to say any of them doubted Thorin’s ability to get from Erebor to the Shire but, rather, that Thorin had always traveled as a prince did, even when at war with the Orcs. With guards, out in the open, stopping at places where he could flash gold and receive the best of everything even if dwarrows weren’t cared for everywhere, unconcerned with any knowing his name or position. He, and his nephews, knew nothing of laying low, avoiding towns at all costs, of having the innkeeps whose palms could be lined with a bit of silver to make them forget and barns they could spend a night or two in memorized. 

Those were things Nori knew. 

They were all hopeful things would work out soon enough and the secrecy wouldn’t need to be maintained too long. It was all a little overly optimistic and simple but Nori had always preferred straight forward planning. Too many ingredients muddied the soup.

Or perhaps ‘too many dwarrows ruins the plan for secrecy’ would have been more apt. Ori had gotten wind of things (or, fine, Nori has told him what was happening because he enjoyed the way Ori looked at him when he did good entirely too much) and decided Thorin's journey to protect his family, find a consort, and escape the King’s madness was a tale that needed recording. It was all rather romantic in Ori’s point of view, the forced marriage element seemed lost under a belief that Thorin might find his One, and far be it for Nori to ruin that for him. Balin, the old coot, had agreed to let Ori come along readily enough. So readily that Nori strongly suspected it was because Balin knew he wanted him to refuse. 

Ori coming along meant Dori had demanded to come as well, headless of the fact the wilds were no place for fussy, well mannered, and pampered courtesans (even ones who’d been born and raised one level above the sewers), and no amount of arguing would stop him. 

Young Gimli refused to be separated from.the younger princes, something that was his right as their personal guard. Gimli’s presence meant that his father had insisted on coming and if not for the fact they had a dwarfling at home Nori was sure the lad’s mother, Simda, would have demanded to come as well. 

Then again Simda was a common dwarf whose dagger skills were known throughout the mountain so he may have prefered her. 

Nori was responsible for getting them all where they needed to go without being noticed by the wrong people and it was already wearing on his nerves. 

True, Thorin, Gloin, and Balin were fine for the most part, Thorin’s little Laketown slip aside and even that had been so well meaning it was hard to upset about it. All three had been to war long before Nori had been born after all, and had little issue with spending a few nights in the cold, though they grumbled a bit. 

Dori wasn’t actually all that terrible, most of his focus on mothering Ori and making Nori feel like so much shit for every choice he’d ever made, which was distinctly different from the actual progress of their journey. But also probably the real reason for Nori’s irritation. The younger four weren’t really that bad, just enthusiastic and easily amazed (especially Ori, who wanted to record everything, and Gimli who’d never been further than Dale in all his life) but not nearly as spoiled and bothersome as he’d expected. 

Still an entire company of noisy dwarrows (not a single one aside from himself and Dori seemed to have any concept of whispering, which meant Nori had surely failed his younger brother) hardly made for a stealth mission. 

It was making him paranoid.

More paranoid.  

He didn’t even know what, if anything, Thrain might do and he was afraid of it happening. 

He wanted to believe if he’d realized what an irritating task it would be he would have said no but that probably wasn’t true. 

The Ri family had a tendency to get themselves into things that were far over their head, or at the least things they shouldn't be involved in, and Nori was no exception to that. 

It has started, Nori supposed, with Tunri, a courtesan many many generations ago. She'd been a Stiffbeard, supposedly, and possessed a beauty unmatched by any in Khazad-dûm (though some of that could have been good old fashioned family pride and exaggeration talking): thick curls like mithril, eyes fire agates, skin like bronze, and a figure that had turned the head of even the king. The story got murky there, in that there was no official record (not terribly uncommon when one considered how often dwarf mountains were lost and taken over or when dealing with a host of royal bastards) but all Ri children were taught that Tunri took up with the already married king, bore him children that could never take their father's name, was removed from her position at order of the queen consort, and lived the rest of her days shunned by polite society. 

It was Ri tradition to keep the name of Tunri and claim their mother, no matter who their father may be. It was about honoring where they came from, auspicious beginning though it may not have been. Many had left the tradition behind and Nori didn't blame them for it. Hardship was common for their line and seemed to chase their footsteps from generation to generation. Poverty, early deaths, traitorous hearts, an unfortunate thread of illness that settled in the mind, and eye-catching beauty that was more curse than gift were just the tip of the iceberg. It mattered not which mountain they lived in, the name of Ri was followed by trouble.

If shedding a name helped escape that then Nori couldn’t think badly of those who did. 

There were only two lines in Erebor now, Nori and his brothers as the most direct to Tunri and a distant cousin and his son, Guri and Lori. 

Nori’s own mother, Suri, daughter of Manri, daughter of Rori, had suffered more than most. She'd been pushed into less than savory work, having no real skills and the care of a mother who was touched with madness to attend to; Erebor was rich but for many it was a matter of doing whatever they could. She’d loved her smoke, loved a great many dwarrow who offered her nothing in return, and seemed mostly confused by Dori and Nori. 

Nori’s clearest memory of her was less of her and more the dwarrow who came and went from her rooms and the haze of sweet smelling smoke that floated around her. He couldn't remember much of her, honestly, not the color of her hair or sound of her voice. No, for Nori all those memories of care and love centered around his older brother, ever patient and tired Dori who'd managed to stretch the money they had for food to be enough to apprentice with a tailor and start Nori learning to read and write (a skill rarely seen in the levels and outer rings of Erebor they lived in). 

They would be not miners, an honorable but especially dangerous and back breaking job under Thrain’s rule, or follow in the paths of their mother, dangerous and body breaking in another way, if Dori could help it.

Dori was seventy and Nori forty when Ori came and Suri wandered out of the mountain never to be seen again and with that things had changed. Dori had withdrawn from the tailoring guild, still being years off from his mastery and being able to work without a large chunk going to his master, and marched right to the head of the courtier guild to put in a petition to train and work. Nori didn't know how it had gone, Dori was a bit old to start up with them and had none of the fine manners he would need to cater to nobles, but he'd been taken on nonetheless and placed as a courtesan within the year.  

Nori had entertained the idea briefly, imagining he might use his ability to read and write to write letters or record meetings for nobles, but the life of a courtier hadn't been for him. Watching Dori learn to play nice with others because of their status and money, learn to dance ‘alluringly’, pour tea, hold vapid conversation but also know the ins and outs of politics and courtly going ons...it seemed beyond him. Besides, Nori knew where he’d likely end up, Dori wasn’t the only one considered fair of face and if not for Nori’s age (and Dori’s considerable strength being common knowledge) there would have been dwarrows sniffing around, and that also didn’t hold any appeal. 

But nor could he abide by letting Dori care for him by being the plaything of rich dwarrows. So he ran away without a word to Dori or more than a kiss to the forehead for poor little Ori, who had no mother or father and now a brother who couldn’t stay. 

He’d meant to go into mining in the Iron Hills, he was strong enough even if he had the stone sense of a particularly dim elf, but somewhere along the way there he'd made friends who padded their coffers with nimble fingers, honeyed words, and misdirection. Nori had proven to be a quick study and even quicker hand when it came to pickpocketing. 

Learning to fight, to creep about unseen and listen in on others, picking locks, and escaping rough situations were skills he picked up along the way. He dealt in goods, information, and even occasionally in the protection business. He took from men and elves and even other dwarrow when it suited, though never in Erebor where it might look badly for Dori and Ori. He built a name for himself among men that eventually followed him home and earned him the suspicions of the guard. He was banned a time or two for the sake of politics after angry men demanded he be punished for his actions, and once for an extended period of time when he'd allegedly stolen from a lord of the Iron Hills (unproven, which was why he kept his fingers, but with enough evidence to cast him out for a few years.) Not that being turned out stopped him from sneaking in to visit. It just meant he had to be careful about it.

He wrote, sent gifts, and when Ori began his apprenticeship as a scribe he'd sent coin and supplies to ease Dori's burden. Letters telling him to stay away and not bring trouble or shame home caught up from time to time but never was the money refused. It was not an easy life, as he imagined Dori’s to be in his less kind and more bitter moments, but it was his and he was good at it. He didn't desire much else. 

And then he’d gotten snatched up by Dwalin, a shameful moment in his career if ever there was one. He hadn't even been doing anything aside from being in Erebor when he shouldn't have been. It had been Ori’s birthday and he'd missed so many so he’d snuck in to spend time with his brother. He would have missed that one, too busy rotting in the dungeons to celebrate, if Dwalin hadn't made him a tempting offer. 

An offer that had included his continued freedom and Ori’s further education being under Balin, heir to the lordship of Khazad-dûm. And all he had to do was become Dwalin’s spy in the mountain. There were places the guard couldn't reach, people who wouldn't speak to them, things they couldn’t say or do. Oaths of loyalty and fealty that couldn't be broken. Oaths Nori wasn't bound by and didn't much care about. 

Accepting the offer had been the best option at the time. 

Sleeping with Dwalin, a choice he'd made independent of his position as the warrior's spy even if Dori feared otherwise, has been stupid. The sex was amazing, never let it be said Dwalin wasn't a dwarf of exceptional physical prowess, stamina, and skill, even if it had been fueled by frustration and derision at first.  But if he'd known it would lead him to this moment, with a proposal bead hanging for a leather cord around his neck, and the weight of *trust* on his shoulders he would have refused. 

His hand wasn't as fun as Dwalin but his hand also never sent him on missions that might get him on the king’s bad side. 

He was in over his head. A little spying on lords, traveling to other mountains to poke around and gauge the political climate and loyalty of others, keeping his ear to the stone to catch any rumors, occasionally integrating himself into unsavory dwarf bands so Dwalin’s men could handle them? That was all very different from what he was doing now. This was putting his fingers into something beyond him, concerning dwarrows far above his station and all the twisted strange threads that made up their lives. 

He was helping Thorin poke at a dragon, metaphorically. An insane dragon who could order Nori executed. An insane dragon who-

“So help me, if you even think of taking that pony off the path I will hogtie you to the back of mine until we get over the Anduin!” He snapped, glowering at a sheepish looking Ori.Ori started to point at something in the trees but Nori just glared harder; his brother shrank down in his saddle, looking like someone had just thrown his journal into a puddle and trod all over it.

Nori tried to remember ever feeling so low and came up empty. 

Dori shot him a dark look as he patted Ori’s shoulder comfortingly. Nori tore his eyes away to glare at everyone else. 

“That goes for all of you. Stay silent, stay on the road, and we may manage to not be dragged off into the trees by spiders the size of your ponies and filled with venom that melts your insides while you’re still alive.” 

At least that’s what the elves who’d looked after him during his stay in the woodland realm had said lurked out in the forest. Nori could neither confirm nor deny. 

Kili, who’d begun straying close to the edge of the road, hastily returned to his brother’s side and Gimli, under Gloin’s hard stare, moved close to his father. 

Balin sighed. “You didn’t have to yell at the lad.” 

Nori pulled his hood up over his head, partially to end the conversation before it could go further and partially to ignore Thorin’s murderous glare. 

Perhaps, he allowed himself as his fingers found the proposal bead, it was less paranoia and concern of being found out and more than he had no idea how to interact with honest dwarrows these days.

He felt badly enough that he said nothing when a small fire was lit and their little company huddled around it that night. 

Though, when a small herd of giant black moths with needle sharp teeth descended upon them from the trees, he couldn’t resist shooting Balin a triumphant look as the others roused from sleep with cries of shock. Balin, stately and levelheaded as he was, made a gesture back at him that, frankly, Nori was a little shocked he even knew. It must have shown on his face because, as Balin swung his mace in an arc to take the wings off a moth and crush it in the same motion, he chuckled dryly. 

Nori found it slightly concerning. 

There was no laughter after that, only heavy breathing, the familiar sound of Dori’s bolas cutting through the air, and hisses of pain mixed with the shrieks of moths. The damn things didn’t bite deep but they latched on like leeches and attacked as a swarm, going for any bit of exposed flesh they could find then moving away just in time to avoid being brought down. It would have been funny, in some other time and place, watching Thorin snarl and swing at a curtain of moths as big as his head only to turn up empty as bite marks appeared on his hands and face. 

But in this time and place Nori’s hair was coming undone, blood was dripping into his eyes and mouth and making his grip on his staff slip, and he could hear Ori’s frantic shouts. He was angry, good and pissed, and not much else. 

He refused to be done in by bugs and not even the fabled spiders at that. It was too shameful to even consider so he gripped his staff tighter and grimly set to work thinning the swarm as best he could without hitting his companions. 

Nori had to give credit where credit was due. 

The princelings were not as thick as they seemed, Fili quickly deciding to put Kili and his bow, now with arrows splashed with oil and set alight while Nori wasn’t looking, on distracting the moths and Ori and his slingshot on bringing them down, allowing the others to end them. And it was Kili who stomped out their small fire as soon as the last moth was twitching on the ground. 

They stood in the dark, untouched by moon or stars and so thick even their eyes, adapted to the dim, deep mountains, had issue with it, squinting at each other, listening to the forest. 

Kili’s very loud whisper rose up first. “At least it wasn’t spiders.” 

The sound of flesh hitting flesh and Fili’s hissed “Shut up.” were decidedly satisfying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Frodo makes some friends. Bilbo is displeased. Thorin's little group runs into some...issues. 
> 
> I apologize to everyone who thought Thorin and the boys would just get to the Shire easily and the romance would begin. And by everyone I mean myself, primarily. I don't know what happened, I really don't.


	4. Of Worry and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is doing his best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Well. Hey. A month between updates? NBD. ...no, but seriously, work has been kicking my teeth in all month. The stress was so real. SO REAL.
> 
> Remember that Age Fuckery I mentioned? Well, to elaborate on that: Frodo is 34, Sam is 33, and the as of yet unseen but mentioned Merry and Pippin are 32 and 29, respectively.

 

Bilbo pulled his winter coat a little tighter around him, hoping to ward off the sharp chill in the air. It would be getting warmer soon thankfully; winter didn’t last long in the Shire most years and rarely came in harshly. The snows had already begun to melt and the ice on the ground was now thin sheets that fauntlings were delighting in jumping on and hearing crack under their weight. He much prefered the warm weather but then those who’d lived through the Fell Winter tended to feel that way, though he was willing to admit he hated winter more than most. He’d seen how things could go badly when they weren’t prepared and had felt the sting of loss like only a few others had. Now every long winter day was spent feeling like he was holding his breath and waiting for something to go wrong. It hadn’t, not in years, but there was no stopping his concern. 

Some less kind hobbits might have called it paranoia when they thought he was out of hearing range. They may have been right but he just couldn't find it in himself to be anything but on guard and ready for the worst to happen. 

Especially since the most important thing to him in the world was a wayward cousin-nephew who insisted on roaming about Hobbiton whenever possible. Frodo hated to be kept inside if there was any helping it, a testament to how far the quiet traumatized faunt Bilbo had taken in all those years ago had come, and winter was no exception to that. Usually Bilbo could cojal him to stay put when the weather was bitterly cold but any hint of sunshine meant his nephew would be rushing out before he could hope to stop him. Usually with Samwise, poor loyal lad, in tow. Which was better for Bilbo’s nerves if not Sam’s ability to stay warm and comfortable. Sam was an overprotective sort and while stopping Frodo’s mischief was an impossibility he could at least be sure his nephew would be forced back inside to warm up periodically and most likely wouldn’t get himself killed along the way.

Unless Merry and Pippin were about. Then there was more than half a chance the lot would freeze to death or fall off a hill and brain themselves before any of them exhibited any degree of common sense. It was nothing short of a miracle it hadn't happened yet.

It was luck, if being unable to sleep could be called luck, that had Bilbo near the front door in order to grab his nephew and Sam before they could sneak away that morning. He’d declared his intent to take the two younger hobbits with him to the market this morning and while Sam had been game Frodo had whined about it all through breakfast and again during elevenses. In the end, for all his protesting, it wasn’t as if Frodo actually had any other plans that Bilbo could discern beyond not wanting to spend the day outside with his uncle. Once Bilbo had reminded him that his cousins were due to visit soon and they’d need to restock the pantry he’d been more willing. 

Willing and strangely fussy, double checking his hair and clothing. Bilbo knew the value of wearing one’s market best, make no mistake, but Frodo had seemed oddly...nervous. Some things, however, were best left unasked and eventually observed so Bilbo had merely followed with a bemused Samwise when his nephew finally deemed himself ready to leave the house. 

The market was smaller in the winter, mostly fresh baked goods, cheeses, ales, meads, and wines just coming to readiness, tools, and imported things to be seen and sold, but Bilbo liked to drift through at least once a week nonetheless. He did it if for no other reason than to keep up with what was happening in Hobbiton. Shopkeepers and stall owners knew everything about everything and were all too happy to share it while doing business. Bilbo wasn’t one for gossip but with recent events, and Frodo’s insistence in being part of them, it didn’t hurt to be kept aware of the comings, goings, and changes in the Shire. 

He was mostly concerned with the dwarrows these days, which was lucky since that was all anyone wanted to talk about at the moment. There had always been some who didn’t appreciate the closeness with the dwarrows since the Fell Winter, had never cared for the idea of dwarrows lingering in the Shire, and were loudly against the idea of intermarriage. When the first mixed marriage had happened, and the first child produced by it, there had been quite the uproar. Hobbits didn’t care much for change or oddity and a hobbitesse marrying a dwarrow, producing children, and then moving away to the mountain was very much that. There had been a handful of unions since that first one and some public courting that hadn’t gone anywhere (and who knew what may have been going on in private), and it was always met with some grumbling and talk of shame brought upon families and all that. 

Those people, which amounted to a not inconsiderable number of families, were in a right snit and were letting everyone who'd listen know about it. Fortinbras, the Buckland Master, and Mayor, being what passed for authority figures and having given what passed for approval of the dwarf king's request (in reality Bilbo know it had been more a matter of all three being unsure why there needed to be official correspondence and requests made about such a thing, as dwarf/hobbit marriages had already taken place without it and certainly they had long since accepted the presence of dwarrows in the Shire, and so they hadn't known what to do except give approval and send a notice around the Shire) had been hearing complaints for weeks. Bilbo did not envy their positions in the least, especially when he knew such complaints came down to thinking mixing with dwarrows was somehow diminishing the hobbits who did so.

Bilbo had never cared much for such talk. If one found love, be it with a dwarrow or a man or even an elf, he didn’t see why that should be a bad thing. As long as it happened naturally and was done properly. 

He didn’t think a bunch of dwarrow seeking them out because their dams had died of sickness (tragic as that was) was proper or normal. Oh, sure, they were being told it wasn’t anything they had to do and there was no obligation to finish a courtship just because they’d started one. Bell Gamgee had, after the announcement had been made, said it wasn’t so different than their early spring Lover’s Festival where interested hobbits would wear ribbons and flowers in hopes of attracting an eye or two. Hobbits from the other farthings would come for the festivals, they'd all primp and wear their best clothing, and there would be contests, games, and dancing late into the night while everyone took a chance to mingle with hobbits they got chances to see rarely.

Kisses between sweethearts, and potential sweethearts, were exchanged alongside ribbons in earnest during the festival and many a courtship was tentatively begun as the sun set.

It was similar, he supposed, but at the same time not similar at all. There was no getting around the fact that dwarrow were coming looking for spouses and mothers to their children, no matter the claim of seeking friendship or love. They didn't want to dance with a hobbit they'd admired since the last festival or hope to tie a sweetheart ribbon around a branch of the party tree. These dwarrows weren't interested in ribbon collecting as they got kisses on the cheek.

They didn’t even want hobbits really. No, they wanted whoever could give them children and if they were willing to travel so far for such a thing then what was to keep them from lying to achieve it? What was to stop a poor naive hobbit from thinking they’d found a mate that cared for them and ending up in a cold, sunless mountain with not but fauntlings to keep them company? 

He didn’t trust it and why should he? The dwarrow from the nearby Blue Mountains were friends of the Hobbits but what of all the others who were coming in spite of never having  Frodo insisted on being involved he was going to have to do what he could to keep him safe. That included being aware of everything that was happening in Hobbiton and with the dwarrow. 

In the years up to this one groups would come from the Mountain with the thaw to help out on the farms, fire up the forge, and get to work aiding in any repairs that needs to be done. Those groups would usually stay until after the harvest then most would move on. The ones that stayed were few and their purpose was the protection of the Shire. They moved about, checking the bridges and rivers, scouting the woods, chopping firewood for those too advanced in age to get out in the cold, mending fences and setting traps in spite of a great many hobbits not seeing the point. They kept to themselves, through some appreciative hobbits were known to bring food out to the stone cottages, Bilbo included. 

With the thaw those who came for the winter would move on and new dwarrows would take their place. There were some who came regularly, every other year at the most, but for the most part it was a constant parade of new faces. Bilbo had always enjoyed it to a degree because they brought interesting stories and books and the more varied the travelers the more varied what they brought promised to be.

Since the dwarrow had become regular fixtures the market had been many things but never boring. 

This year he knew he would be enjoying it far less than in previous years and that became very clear to him when they topped the hill that turned into the market and found it surprisingly busy. And not the usual sort of busy, with families and fauntlings underfoot, but the busy he was sure he’d been seeing a lot of in the future. Young hobbits, around Frodo’s age for the most part, wearing some of their best clothing, buttons shinin, laces and sashes pristine, faces feet and sweet, clumped together in groups and pretending not to be watching as a group of dwarrows set up their stalls in front of the blacksmithing building. 

Blue ribbons dotted hair as far as the eye could see. Some smaller and thinner, for the hobbits with less hair, tied around locks then allowed to hang down or pulled into bows, some thicker and stiffer ribbons wrapped around or threaded through headbands, others holding single ponytails while some held pairs, and some were woven into fishtail braids. There were winter blooms on display as well; snowdrops, sprigs of leatherleaf flowers, winter jasmine, and winter pansies woven into curls and tucked coyly near the points of their ears. 

Bilbo could only imagine the scores of horrified parents in their smials, moaning about their children’s brazen displays. Frodo, at least, had refrained from making such a spectacle, and only tied a short length around some of his curls and left it at that. 

For now. 

When the weather grew warm and the market busier the ‘eligible’ hobbits cramming into the area was going to be troublesome, no doubt about it, and if some were already this shameless then...well. Frodo wasn’t exactly known for being subtle or doing things halfway when he was after something. The stories Bilbo could tell about his young nephew talking his way into extra cookies or leading ‘raids’ to nab pies from windows were near endless. 

He was not looking forward to whatever Frodo was going to be getting up to when more dwarrows arrived. If only he’d ended up with a nephew more like Sam-

No. No he didn’t mean that at all. Frodo could be a handful, yes, but there was nothing about him that Bilbo would change. Had he not been relieved when Frodo had begun to recover from the death of his parents and begun to bloom into the energetic, mischievous young man he was now? Had he not all but begged Hamfast and Bell to bring Samwise around, happily taken the long walks to Brandyhall and Tuckborough to play with his many cousins, and perhaps been a little too indulgent over the years all in hopes of seeing his nephew smile and laugh. 

Which he did now, often and without reservation. Twenty years ago he hadn’t been sure his young nephew would ever leave his bed over his grief of his parent’s passing. That he could even be annoyed at Frodo’s antics from time to time was something to be grateful for. 

Even if it meant a distressing amount of curiosity about the world outside of the Shire. 

He beelined straight for Bell, Sam’s mother, and her covered baskets of still warm sweet rolls and muffins. She greeted him with a wide smile and a slight inclination of her head towards Frodo, asking a silent question. He shook his head and grimaced slightly; she had three daughters and a son, aside from Sam, and they’d swapped many stories on the trials of raising rambunctious faunts and tweens over the years. 

Bell’s eyes sparkled with humor. “Marigold has seen fit to gather ribbons as well. She thinks there’s an amazing summer romance waiting for her. Hamfast thinks this is our punishment for running off and eloping as we did.” 

Frodo, busy poking into the baskets in spite of Sam’s efforts to get him to stop, laughed. “Missus Goodchild would agree. Last time we were in Tuckborough she ambushed us for tea and went on and on until dinner about it.” 

“Did she?” Bell asked, head tilting to the side. Graying curls fell over her eyes, casting her expression in shadow. “Sam didn’t mention that.” 

If Bilbo had been in Sam’s position he wouldn’t have spoken of it either but that was best kept to himself. 

“It wasn’t that bad.” Sam added quickly, shooting Frodo a quelling look. Frodo snorted. “...grandmother’s scones were good. She made my favorite, with the candied orange peels and berries.”

“You poor dears.” She said without a hint of sincerity without looking the least bit apologetic but that was par for the course. Hamfast had come and ‘stolen’ her from her family smial, in one of the more rarely seen Shire traditions, some forty-five years ago and she hadn’t looked back, or allowed her husband to apologize for it, once. If asked she would only turn up her nose and say that if her parents had given their approval when she’d given Hamfast her ribbons they wouldn’t have had to resort to bride stealing. 

Bilbo was far from surprised that Mari, their oldest child, was interested in the dwarrows considering her parents. He said as much, earning himself another grin and an extra sweet roll or two. While she packed up what he wanted and had Sam jot down an order for when Merry and Pippin arrived (Bilbo was a decent baker but Bella’s breakfast pastries were legendary and if he sent his young cousins home without having had some he would never hear the end of it.) he found his attention slipping back over to the tittering young hobbits and the dwarrows at the center of their attention. 

The dwarrows, to their credit, seemed oblivious of the stir they had caused. There were a half dozen of them milling about in front of the forge, shifting snow, nailing stall frames together, and shaking out long swaths of fabric to drape over tables and the top of the stalls. They seemed to be separated in two distinct groups, paying no attention to each other. 

The group closest to Bilbo looked  _ interesting _ , though really that word paled to encompass them. The tallest of the group, hunched over as he connected the frame pieces, had wild black hair touched with white in spots, a beard more white than black, and an axe head embedded in his skull. The one dealing with the construction of the tabletop had flaming red hair on his head and chin, done in a thick braid long enough to loop down by his stomach and come back around. He, at least, looked like he’d had some proper meals in his life unlike most dwarrow Bilbo had seen in his lifetime; that one had been raised properly. The third was hovering over the shoulder of the first, shaking his head and making complicated signs with his fingers while ducking the occasional irritated swipe. He was a touch smaller than the other two, hair a deep brown that was done in braids that curled upwards and crowned with a frankly ridiculous hat. 

The third thumped the first on the back and pointed at something. The first closed his eyes, looking as if he was in physical pain, then unceremoniously pushed the third hard enough to send him tumbling into a snow drift. The redhead glanced up, sighed loudly, shook his head, then returned to his task. 

The other group was less interesting to look at but had most of the attention of the assembled hobbits. One was made up of three dark haired dwarrows, two of darker skin tone and one paler, with braids braided and beards bound in near identical styles. They were methodically building their own stall with none of the fuss or energy of the other group, working in quiet harmony. Bilbo didn't recognize them either but with what was to happen this year that was no surprise. He suspected a great many dwarrow who couldn't be bothered with the Shire or Hobbiton in years previous would develop a sudden desire to stay for a few seasons. 

Still they seemed like the dependable and focused sort and, while Bilbo had no intention of getting involved in any of the nonsense that was coming, if he were those were the kind of dwarrow he’d approve of. 

So naturally when he glanced back towards the first group it was to find his nephew had crept over while he was watching the second. Frodo was helping the dwarf who’d fallen into the snow drift reclaim his hat and seemed to have already struck up a conversation. Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose and resisted the urge to groan. He’d been looking away for a minute, at most! How had Frodo even managed to get past him without him noticing? 

Samwise, still hovering at Bilbo’s side, looked terribly apologetic, as if Bilbo wasn’t well aware that his nephew did what he pleased when he pleased. Some of the assembled hobbits, with their flowers and ribbons, were now giving Frodo their full attention, expressions ranging from thoughtful to annoyed. 

“Looks like Frodo is making friends early.” Bella said, smiling cheerfully as she slid around her stall to stand right in front of Bilbo, blocking his view of Frodo. Bilbo glowered at her but it had about as much effect as his lectures did on Frodo. “What about you my boy, decided to don the blue ribbons with Frodo and your sister?”

From the corner of his eye Bilbo saw Sam go pink from neck to ear tip. “M-Me? No, no, not me! Well, that is to say I am but I’m not in-interested in any dwarrows. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I suppose. Frodo is- well. You know how Frodo is. Mari too.” 

Bell nodded her understanding. “Of course. Not to worry dear, you won’t be alone. I hear  _ Rosie Cotton _ and her brother have opted out, and a few other families as well.” 

“That’s...um. I’ll take this basket for you Mister Bilbo.” Sam squeaked as he all but snatched it from his mother’s hands and then dashed over to Frodo’s side. Bilbo tried to lean to the side to see exactly what his nephew was doing but Bell shifted with him, keeping his view blocked. 

“Bilbo.” She said and oh, he knew that tone. He hadn’t heard it in a while but for a time it had been a dear friend, coloring things like ‘Bilbo, don’t fret so’ and ‘Bilbo, it’s fine if he’s a bit late coming home’ and ‘Bilbo, a few bumps and scrapes are bound to happen.’ This was, he was certain, about to be something along that vein. “Frodo is an adult.” 

“I’m aware.” He said with no small amount of mulishness. He had, in fact, been aware of how old Frodo was since he’d hit his mid-twenties and began to desire independence more, and need him less, as tweens were wont to do. “I’m just-” 

“Worried, as you always are.” Bell clucked her tongue at him. “Let him have his fun. He’s a smart lad, put a little trust in him. And, if not in him then in Sam to look after him...and, while you're doing so, consider a summer, or spring or fall, romance of your own.”

He stared at her, aghast. “Bell-"

She scoffed. “It's been too long since you've called on anyone, or had anyone call in you. Years, if I’m not wrong, and I think it’s high time you correct that. Why not a charming dwarf to occupy your time?”

“I’m going to ignore that.” Bilbo said primly, not bothering to hide his disapproving frown. 

She winked then clapped him on the shoulder with more force than was strictly necessary before returning to her stall, where Eared Stonefoot was waiting. Clearly dismissed as he was Bilbo slowly made his way to the half-completed stall, stopping briefly to buy a few spools of thread and needles but keeping his eye on his nephew. Construction seemed to have stalled for the time being, the dwarf with the hat and the one with the axe in his head (Bilbo’s scalp itched every time his eyes caught on the sight) now busy showing something off to Frodo and Sam on the half constructed tabletop while the red haired dwarf stood at the other end, propping the table up and looking nonplussed with the arrangement. There were various items scattered over the surface and, as Bilbo got closer, he could see some were what looked like small dwarrows little horses, and carts made from metal and boats carved from wood, as well as a larger something Sam and Frodo were focused on.

“Uncle!” Frodo said once he was close enough, flashing him a wide grin. “Look at this one, it moves. Bifur says there's something like the inside of a windmill in it, to move it.” 

‘This one’ was a tree, the body made of wood with leaves made of metal pressed near parchment thin and painted green, with tiny red glass balls hanging from the branches. It was lovely all on its own but then Frodo pressed down on the top. The top of the tree begun to spin, glass balls tinkling like bells, and  and a flickering light came to life inside. Bilbo crowded closer without realizing he was doing it, bending over the table alongside his nephew and Sam to watch the display. As it slowed the flashes of light came with more space between them then, finally, went dark. 

When he looked up it was to find the two dwarrows beaming at them with obvious pride. It was hard to not smile back, their pleasure infectious.

“This is Bofur and his cousin Bifur, and Bofur’s younger brother Bombur over there. This is my Uncle, Bilbo Baggins.” Frodo pointed to each in turn. Bombur lifted a quick hand in greeting before returning to steadying the table and Bilbo smiled politely. “Bofur and Bifur are miners, in the Blue Mountains, and Bombur is a builder. They’ve never stayed in the Shire before and they’re here until the summer selling toys and doing metalwork.”

Bilbo smiled wanly. “And you learned all that in the few minutes you were over here without me? I’m surprised you still have ears with how much he must have been talking.” He said, addressing the dwarrows.

Frodo flushed darkly amd made a face like he was going to argue but Bifur shook his head and grunted something dark and gravely while moving his fingers rapidly. Bofur nodded in apparent agreement. 

“Too right. We don’t mind yer lad at all. Wouldn't have taken the toys out to show ‘im if we did.” 

Bifur nodded resolutely as he signed something else and pointed at Sam and Frodo. Bofur arched an eyebrow, gestured, then held up a hand when his cousin moved his fingers again, faster and with more force than the first time. 

“Fine fine, no need to get nasty. Do ye tuck in yer children with that hand?” Bofur grumbled. “Bifur has some other things he'd like to show the lads, if they’re interested.”

Frodo’s eyes lit up and even Sam, normally more subdued, looked visibly excited; both turned to Bilbo hopefully, very much the eager faunts he remembered so fondly for a moment. Fondness filled him; saying anything but yes was impossible. 

Especially not with Bell and her reminder that his nephew was of age so fresh in his mind.

“Go ahead if you want, but don’t be a bother.” 

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the basket of sweet rolls was thrust into his hands and Bifur was hustling the boys away into the forge. Bilbo watched, unsure if he should be offended or not at the speed in which they left his side. Then again he couldn't really hope to compete with new, exciting toys could he? 

“I hope you weren’t planning to see them again anytime soon.” Bofur said solemnly. “Give Bifur an audience and he’ll hold onto them for hours.” 

“They’ll be thrilled.” Bilbo said, smiling slightly. Then, looking sidelong towards Bell’s stand to find himself being watched closely (he didn’t care for the way she was ginning at him in the least), rocked back on his heels. “I’ll be on my way then and-oh. Here, take these, they’re best fresh and there should be more than enough for all of you.”

He passed the basket to Bofur, who blinked in surprise but held fast to it, called a farewell to Sam and Frodo, and set about his way. 

There was plenty to do, as there always was. Mending, cleaning, letters to answer, writing he should have done long ago and kept putting off, and a visit from Lobelia that he could have done without (pertaining to Frodo and his ribbons and her opinions on a potential future where a half-dwarf inherited Bag End, though stated with not but sweet concern and politeness while he gritted his teeth and drank his tea), among other things. He’d never lacked for activity to engage in while Frodo was off, though he found himself looking out the window more than he usually did and glancing up at any and every sound. 

He was willing to concede, sometime around lunchtime and the tenth time he’d lingered by the window looking out onto the lane, that perhaps he was worrying more than he needed to. Frodo was in the middle of Hobbiton, with hobbits close at hand, dealing with dwarrows from the Blue Mountains who, thus far, had never done any wrong by the hobbits. Yet there he was, fretting like... well he didn’t know what he was fretting like. Someone without sense or control, he supposed. 

Bell might have had a point, not that he was likely to tell her that anytime soon. 

It was enough of a revelation that when Frodo returned just as night was falling, pink cheeked from the cold and looking tremendously pleased, Bilbo had a small bundle of red and purple ribbons waiting for him. 

“Uncle,” Frodo stopped, letting whatever he was going to say hang in the air, eyebrows knitting together as he reached for the bundles. Bilbo sniffed and turned back to the stew he was stirring. 

“Don’t think this means I think you should run off with the first dwarrow who is nice to you. But it wouldn’t hurt to...make new friends.” Arms wrapped around him from behind and squeezed hard enough to be just this side of painful. Bilbo allowed it without complaint, patting Frodo’s hands lightly before shooing him away with a laugh. “Yes, yes, now go wash your hands for dinner.”

\---

Thorin pushed his hood back with a grimace. "Thranduilion." 

The elf eyed him coolly. "Prince Thorin. We weren't aware you'd be traveling this way. And with such," His gaze slide over to a blank faced Nori. "Infamous company." 

Somewhere just out of Thorin's field of vision Balin sighed loudly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings: Snowdrop: Consolation or Hope  
> Pansy: Thoughts, sometimes specifically ‘A Lover’s Thoughts’  
> Winter/Yellow Jasmine: Modesty, Grace, Elegance, Passionate Love  
> Leatherleaf: Fascination
> 
> Ribbons: Blue, meaning interested/available to ‘attention’  
> Purple: Given by the wearer of a Blue ribbon to someone they’re interested in/accept the attention of.  
> Red: Swapped out for blue when someone is in the beginning stages of a one on one courtship.  


End file.
